wrapping. My name was written on one side in a cramped scrawl I recognized immediately as Oscar’s.
“Oscar gave it to me a couple of weeks ago,” Mr. Wang said. “Not long before he died.”
I turned the package over in my hands, my eyes instinctively looking for yet another three-petaled tulip.
“He asked me to deliver it to you.” Mr. Wang looked at me with deep, solemn eyes. “In case something happened to him.”
“Happened to him?” I repeated the words, hearing the ominous phrase for the second time in as many days.
Chapter 13
MR. WANG’S FRAIL figure teetered off down the street as I excused myself from Monty’s tea service. I climbed the stairs to the kitchen, laid the package on the table, and collapsed into one of the worn seats.
The resilience I’d built up in the days since the funeral melted away. The package sat on the table like a bomb, waiting to explode. I hunched in my chair, biting my lower lip, my eyes trying to penetrate the layers of brown packing paper.
Sighing resignedly, I slipped the edge of a pair of scissors underneath a fold and began to cut through the layers of tape. In typical Oscar fashion, the package was virtually waterproof from his wrapping. Not an inch of the paper remained uncovered by strapping tape.
At long last, I’d cut through enough of the outer shell to access the inside. I reached in and pulled out a weathered parchment that was folded up like a street map. The worn and beaten document cracked as I opened its accordion-like pages. Unfolded, it spanned about two feet by three feet. The printed side contained streets and a shoreline from an earlier time that I recognized immediately—it was San Francisco during the first blazing days of the Gold Rush.
I’d come across several old city maps in the Green Vase showroom, but this was one of the earliest versions I’d seen. In this depiction, the shoreline had not quite reached our block in Jackson Square. The land that the Green Vase would soon occupy was still under water. The kitchen table where I was sitting looked to be about forty to fifty feet into the bay, near the mouth of a small inlet cove. A short bridge had been built over the narrow opening of the cove to allow foot traffic to the other side.
I sat back in the chair and rubbed my eyes. Why would Oscar have asked Mr. Wang to deliver this to me? What calamitous event had he been preparing for? Had Oscar sensed his imminent stroke or was there a more sinister explanation?
I heard a noise outside and walked through the living room to the window overlooking the street. Monty and Ivan were carrying the table and chairs back to Monty’s studio. I carefully refolded the map, slid it between two cookbooks on a shelf in the kitchen, and headed back downstairs.
Monty and Ivan walked through the front door as I reached the showroom. From Monty’s expression, I could tell he was about to bombard me with questions about the package.
“Ouch!” I cried out as I stubbed my toe on the still unopened crate that had covered the trap door to the basement.
“Hey, can one of you help me open this crate?” I called out. Given Monty’s pathological penchant for disseminating information, I wasn’t ready to share this latest development with him. I needed a quick change of subject.
“I’ve got it,” Monty said as he trotted towards the back of the room where I stood next to the crate. He leaned over the box and tried to read the water-stained shipping label.
“Australia?” he called out curiously. “What would Oscar have ordered from Australia?”
I shrugged my shoulders—puzzled, but relieved. His interest piqued, Monty dove into the task, momentarily forgetting about my package from Mr. Wang.
“We’re going to need a crowbar on this,” he advised, looking at me with an air of crate-opening expertise.
I fetched one from Oscar’s toolbox in a closet off the kitchen. “Here you go.”
“Right, then,” he said, grabbing the handle. He
“Oscar gave it to me a couple of weeks ago,” Mr. Wang said. “Not long before he died.”
I turned the package over in my hands, my eyes instinctively looking for yet another three-petaled tulip.
“He asked me to deliver it to you.” Mr. Wang looked at me with deep, solemn eyes. “In case something happened to him.”
“Happened to him?” I repeated the words, hearing the ominous phrase for the second time in as many days.
Chapter 13
MR. WANG’S FRAIL figure teetered off down the street as I excused myself from Monty’s tea service. I climbed the stairs to the kitchen, laid the package on the table, and collapsed into one of the worn seats.
The resilience I’d built up in the days since the funeral melted away. The package sat on the table like a bomb, waiting to explode. I hunched in my chair, biting my lower lip, my eyes trying to penetrate the layers of brown packing paper.
Sighing resignedly, I slipped the edge of a pair of scissors underneath a fold and began to cut through the layers of tape. In typical Oscar fashion, the package was virtually waterproof from his wrapping. Not an inch of the paper remained uncovered by strapping tape.
At long last, I’d cut through enough of the outer shell to access the inside. I reached in and pulled out a weathered parchment that was folded up like a street map. The worn and beaten document cracked as I opened its accordion-like pages. Unfolded, it spanned about two feet by three feet. The printed side contained streets and a shoreline from an earlier time that I recognized immediately—it was San Francisco during the first blazing days of the Gold Rush.
I’d come across several old city maps in the Green Vase showroom, but this was one of the earliest versions I’d seen. In this depiction, the shoreline had not quite reached our block in Jackson Square. The land that the Green Vase would soon occupy was still under water. The kitchen table where I was sitting looked to be about forty to fifty feet into the bay, near the mouth of a small inlet cove. A short bridge had been built over the narrow opening of the cove to allow foot traffic to the other side.
I sat back in the chair and rubbed my eyes. Why would Oscar have asked Mr. Wang to deliver this to me? What calamitous event had he been preparing for? Had Oscar sensed his imminent stroke or was there a more sinister explanation?
I heard a noise outside and walked through the living room to the window overlooking the street. Monty and Ivan were carrying the table and chairs back to Monty’s studio. I carefully refolded the map, slid it between two cookbooks on a shelf in the kitchen, and headed back downstairs.
Monty and Ivan walked through the front door as I reached the showroom. From Monty’s expression, I could tell he was about to bombard me with questions about the package.
“Ouch!” I cried out as I stubbed my toe on the still unopened crate that had covered the trap door to the basement.
“Hey, can one of you help me open this crate?” I called out. Given Monty’s pathological penchant for disseminating information, I wasn’t ready to share this latest development with him. I needed a quick change of subject.
“I’ve got it,” Monty said as he trotted towards the back of the room where I stood next to the crate. He leaned over the box and tried to read the water-stained shipping label.
“Australia?” he called out curiously. “What would Oscar have ordered from Australia?”
I shrugged my shoulders—puzzled, but relieved. His interest piqued, Monty dove into the task, momentarily forgetting about my package from Mr. Wang.
“We’re going to need a crowbar on this,” he advised, looking at me with an air of crate-opening expertise.
I fetched one from Oscar’s toolbox in a closet off the kitchen. “Here you go.”
“Right, then,” he said, grabbing the handle. He
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